


Dancing Around the Lies We Tell

by thebaddestwolf



Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: F/M, Fake Dating, Fake/Pretend Relationship, RPF, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 18:30:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1698317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebaddestwolf/pseuds/thebaddestwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Billie asks David to go with her to a party.  It’s not until later that she mentions she maybe, possibly, sort of, told her friends they were dating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancing Around the Lies We Tell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allrightfine (cereal)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal/gifts).



He wishes he’d said no almost immediately, although that was never an option, not really.

He had never been able to refuse her, not since she’d had too much to drink the first time they met at Julie’s house, when she asked him to drive her and her little white Porsche home. He’d even tucked her in between white sheets and a white duvet, and had she asked (had she not fallen asleep) he’d have stayed, too.

So when Billie tugs on the cuff of his sleeve between takes, biting her bottom lip and smiling up at him as she asks if he’ll come to her friend’s party at the weekend, his mind has barely processed the prospect before he’s nodding yes. Of course, it’s not until later that she mentions that she maybe, possibly, sort of, told her friends they were dating.

“You did what?” David sputters, looking up from the crisp script she brought to his trailer moments earlier.

“It’s just, they’ve been nagging me since my separation,” she says, picking at her cuticle and not meeting his eye. “And I’m not good at going stag -- have hardly been single since I was 13.”

His snort is cut short by her hurt expression and, oh, he realizes she’s serious.

“Fine, but just this once. Don’t want people thinking I’ve lowered my standards.”

She rolls her eyes so hard he thinks it must have hurt.

***

By the time Friday night approaches there’s a persistent knot low in his stomach, a bundle of excitement and trepidation that only tightens when he gets into her car.

He’s not sure what’s expected of him, how far they’ll have to go to keep up the ruse, and he hasn’t asked for fear it will betray his anxiety. But she’s a very hands-on friend as is, the way she’ll loop her arm through his or squeeze his shoulder when he makes her laugh or kiss the corner of his mouth after they walk home from the pub. He’s never seen her with a boyfriend before, aside from glossy magazine photos, but he imagines her affinity for public displays of affection is incrementally high.

“Check the glove box,” she says once he buckles up, quirking an eyebrow at him as she peels away from the curb. “Got you a couple for the road.”

He grins, taking a can of chilled lager and popping the lid. “Guess you’re the designated driver tonight, then.”

“Course,” she beams, swerving around a lorry and nearly making David spill down the front of his shirt. “Have to keep a clear head to fool my mates. They may grill you -- fair warning -- but I figure you know as much about me as a boyfriend would. Spend most of our time together anyway, don’t we? The only thing missing is, well…”

She abruptly changes lanes again, flipping off a terrified old man in a Skoda, and David takes several long pulls from his beer. The only thing missing is exactly what he doesn't need to be thinking about.

***

He regrets not drinking the second can of beer when they get out of the car and he realizes just how short her dress is, marveling at the way it’s loose and low on top, yet tight and clingy on the bottom. His eyes automatically search the dark fabric for traces of bra straps as she turns her back to him and stoops to adjust the fastening on her sandal.

David suddenly feels underdressed, in trainers and jeans and a t-shirt. She’d told him it was a casual do and it didn’t occur to him that the term could have another meaning in more posh circles. He’s glaring at the scuffs on his shoe when she takes his hand, smiling and tugging him through the front garden and to the door.

“You alright? You’ve been quiet.” She slings his arm around her shoulders and rings the bell. “We’ll get you a stronger drink first thing, okay?”

He laughs and lets his arm hang loose across her neck, brushing his fingertips across her collarbone.

“Don’t you worry about me, Piper,” he says, feigning confidence. “By the end of the night I’ll have ‘em convinced I’m the best bloke you’ve dated yet.”

The door opens just as she slips her hand into the back pocket of his jeans. David swallows and plasters a smile on his face as he shakes the host’s hand, throat dry for want of whiskey.

***

The grin on his face is sluggish and genuine by the time Billie hands him his third glass of the amber liquid, which has done its job clouding his mind and making him at ease.

His date has chosen whiskey as her drink too, though she’s only on her second, and it’s somehow making her voice even more husky than usual, a silky sound that swirls in his gut like the ice cubes in his glass.

She’s been glued to his side all night, her arm looped around his waist or her finger hanging from the belt loop on his jeans, but it’s nothing he can’t handle, not with his preferred brand of liquid courage in seemingly endless supply. Her friends make for enjoyable, if odd, company too -- he thinks there’s a music connection somehow, though he hasn’t discerned what it is. There’s a steady bass beat pumping from a back room, but they stay in the lounge where it’s quieter, playing drinking games and chatting with her friends and, thankfully, minimal grilling.

“Are you two going to go public or is this staying on the down-low,” one woman asks, a former back-up dancer, he thinks.

David tenses and takes a sip to stall, but Billie just smiles and smoothes her hand over his thigh from her spot next to him on the sofa.

“Dunno, gonna see how things go,” she says, squeezing his leg. “Don’t really have to make a decision ‘til the episodes start to air, anyway.”

He beams at her, snaking his arm between her back and the couch until his hand settles low on her hip. She’s always been good at spinning a tale, happily taking all the hard questions at BBC press junkets, so of course tonight is no different. He traces the dull edges of her hipbone through the fabric of her dress and decides it’s a night for living in lies.

“Besides,” he says, addressing her friend while keeping his eyes on Billie’s face. “The secrecy is half the fun.”

***

David is particularly delighted to learn that whiskey makes her giggly, his smallest remark eliciting a raspy peel of laughter that she muffles in the crook of his neck. He knows she’s playing the role of the besotted girlfriend but he doesn’t give a shit anymore, giving up all pretense of following the conversation as he focuses on thinking of the next thing he might say to make her laugh.

He gets their next round of drinks -- another whiskey for him, a water for her -- and when he returns to the lounge she’s perched on the arm of the sofa with her lips pursed together and her right eyebrow seemingly straining with effort not to arch.

Handing her the glass of water along with a quizzical look, David sits and then nearly spills his drink when she slides easily into his lap. She’s grinning at him now, tonguing the corner of her smile as she settles in, resting her back against the the side of the sofa and her feet on the cushion next to him.

He hopes she doesn’t hear his sharp intake of breath as he grips her waist in an attempt to stop the wriggling.

“Are we sitting comfortably?” he asks when she stills, because he’d just filmed that scene this morning and it’s the first thing that comes to mind.

“Yes, Doctor.” She winks and giggles and, fuck, he’d have preferred another torturous wriggle to those two words falling from her lips.

***

It’s not long later that the liquor catches up to him, and the pleasant, warm feeling gives way to sloppy brazenness. The card games have ceased and the conversations have dispersed and suddenly he’s left with a glass of whiskey-stained ice cubes and Billie Piper in his lap.

“Think everyone is sufficiently fooled?” He drags a finger along the condensation on his glass before connecting the freckles on her thigh, drawing watery constellations on her skin.

“Nearly just,” she says, and he thinks he feels her shiver. “But we should leave them without question of a doubt.”

He places the glass on the coffee table and swirls a finger in the ice, returning to his task as an effort to distract himself. She shifts in his lap and he can see a new freckle on the inside of her thigh, just under the hem of her dress. His hand chases it, leaving a dewy trail across her skin, and by the time he reaches it he feels her teeth on his jaw.

“Dave.”

It’s hardly a whisper but he hears it, turning to meet her gaze with his hand still half under her dress. Her brow is knit and her eyes are soft and he knows it’s a lie, logically he fucking _knows_ it, but he can’t resist her even if it’s a fallacy.

Her kiss is gentle and he can’t stand it. It tastes like pity and platitudes, and yet he can’t bring himself to break away. Instead his nails dig into the flesh on her thigh and his teeth tug at her bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue. Then she shifts and there’s a sound, a quiet one at the back of her throat, and her tongue rushes to meet his as her hand tangles in his hair.

It’s too much, now, and something once lazily partial is quickly becoming insistent and full, and his hand begins to smooth further up her thigh as his entire consciousness focuses on getting her to make that noise again.

It’s a different sort of noise, however, that gets his attention next -- a distant hooting and hollering and calls that they should get a room. He’s prepared to ignore it but Billie has pulled away, laughing at her friends and tossing the remainder of his ice cubes their way.

By the time her attention has returned to him the moment has passed, except now there’s no ignoring the erection pressing into her thigh. She smiles at him and it’s incredibly, achingly sobering. He almost lifts her off him so he can refill his glass before he realizes he shouldn’t be going anywhere, not just yet.

“Got carried away,” she says, and he can’t tell if it’s an apology or a taunt.

She wriggles again and he grits his teeth, gripping her waist with both hands.

“Bills, don’t,” he grounds out, closing his eyes. “Just give me a minute.”

The next thing he knows she’s standing and he’s gaping at her for this act of betrayal, but before he can reach for a pillow she’s tugging him off the sofa. She turns and pulls his arms around her waist, winking over her shoulder as she leads him forward through the crowd.

***

There’s a queue for the loo and she brings them to a stop behind the last person, leaning back against his chest and tracing the curves of his fingers. He rests his chin on her head and tries to will his hard-on away, but as if she can sense his intentions she shimmies backward, grinding her bum against him in a tight circle.

He’s confused, wondering if this is all part of the pretending, and kicking himself for even caring. Monday morning will be awkward, there’s no doubt about it, so he may as well enjoy this closeness while he can, soak it all up and store it away in his memory banks for later.

It’s finally her turn for the loo and a quick glance down confirms he can stand alone without embarrassing himself, so he steps aside to wait. Billie shakes her head and takes his hand, stepping into the toilet and trying to pull him along with her.

There’s no one queueing behind them but he hesitates, glancing around. Billie rolls her eyes.

“Think I need some help with my dress,” she says, a little too loudly, and he’s ushering her inside before she draws any more attention.

He closes the door behind him and for the first time in hours it’s just them. He waits for the awkwardness to come but it never does, instead his whiskey-fuelled boldness returns and he lets his gaze rake down her body, watching her breasts jiggle as she hops up on the countertop. Well, there’s the bra strap mystery solved.

“You having fun?” she says, as if they’re making smalltalk over a tray of hors d'oeuvres.

She offers him a hand and a smirk, both of which he takes, letting her reel him in.

“I was,” he replies, mind stuttering when she drops his hand to tug him by his belt loops. “Got interrupted.”

“You scratched me.” She parts her legs to show him four faint red welts on her skin.

“Sorry.” He brushes his fingers over the marks and it’s the whiskey, totally and completely the whiskey, that leads him to fall to his knees and replace his fingers with his lips. “Didn’t mean to hurt you, I just--”

He’s about to stand up, about to finish his sentence, when he sees a flash of pink skin where there should be knickers.

“Shit.” He stands so abruptly he makes himself dizzy and has to grab the counter to steady himself. It’s embarrassing, really, how quickly he’s tenting his jeans again, making him sincerely wish he was in the loo alone.

“Hey, you okay?” Her voice is innocent but the look on her face is not. David’s not sure if he wants to storm out or make her come so hard her head hits the mirror behind her.

Before he can find words to reply she parts her legs even more and pulls him closer, kissing the corner of his mouth like she has so many times before. He leans his forehead against hers, gripping the edge of the countertop as he attempts to keep a hold on his faltering control.

She begins kissing a path down his neck and he tries to go with it, desperately wants to live in the lie, but finds he can’t convince himself anymore. It’s not real and he wishes it was and if he doesn’t stop her now the next six months will be torture.

“Billie,” he says, forcing a smile when she looks at him. “I’m fine, you don’t have to. Let’s just go back out there -- we must’ve removed all question of a doubt by now.”

She blinks up at him and shakes her head. “Want to.”

Her lips descend to his neck again and then move to his collarbone, teeth grazing his skin before she sucks hard.

David gulps and gently grips her shoulders, pushing her back. “No, it’s okay. Let’s call it a night, yeah?”

“What, you don’t believe me?” she asks, right eyebrow arched high.

“No, I just--” he stammers, running a hand through his hair. “Don’t want you to feel obligated just because I…” He glances down and watches her gaze follow.

He expects her to make a joke, but her eyes are serious when they meet his again.

“There was a time when I did feel obligated, with boys… men.” She takes the hand that had been pulling at his hair and brings it to her knee. “But not anymore.” Her eyes are locked on his as she guides his fingers higher up her thigh, under the hem of her dress, past the freckle beyond it. “And especially not tonight. Not with you.”

She drops his wrist but his hand reaches its destination anyway, punctuating her last sentence with a gasp. Her eyes fall shut as his fingers slip through her folds and David swears under his breath because she’s so wet, so fucking wet, the kind of arousal that must have been building long before they stepped into the loo.

His mind is reeling but his desire to act drowns out all thought, and he bites his lip and watches her face as he continues to explore her. He teases her entrance with two fingers and his thumb glides upwards to her clit, ringing it once before pressing firmly.

And there’s that sound again, the soft, choked-back noise that definitively decides he will not be storming out; that he’ll do whatever it takes to make her come so fucking hard.

He’s a little disappointed to realize that it may not take much, what with the way she’s keening after a few short minutes, clutching at the back of his shirt and alternately biting and gasping against his neck. He resigns himself to making her come hard _twice_ , at minimum, and pulls the front of her dress down to pinch her nipples as he speeds up the movements of his thumb.

“Wait, wait,” she’s gasping and pushing his fingers away. David drops his hands and gapes at her, thinking this is one hell of a time for second thoughts. But an instant later her mouth is on his, kiss hot and messy, and she’s palming the front of his trousers, making him groan and arch into her touch.

“Need you,” she pants against his lips, undoing his fly and stroking him through his boxer briefs. “Inside me.”

He can only answer with a hoarse moan and his hands return to her breasts, thumbing and kneading and tweaking, eliciting every sound from her he can. It seems like it takes ages for her to shove his pants down to his knees and wrap her small, warm fingers around him, smoothing the pre-cum over the head of his cock and making David grip the countertop again.

“Bill,” he groans, and it’s a plea.

She shimmies forward and lines him up with her entrance, and that feeling alone is almost enough to make him come undone, his tip pressing into her wet heat. He’s about to thrust forward, steels himself to go slowly, when she slides his cock through her folds, rubbing him against her clit and looking up at him with hooded eyes.

It’s the moment he remembers most later, the sight of her with her breasts exposed, her dress pushed up over her hips, his cock in her hand as she uses it to pleasure herself. And it’s the whiskey, totally and completely the whiskey, that keeps him from coming right then and there.

He watches her for what feels like eons, though in all likelihood is a few seconds, and then he’s the one pushing her hand away, gripping her hips and sliding his tip back inside her. With his last shred of resolve he stoops to press his lips to hers, smirking as he feels her nails dig into his arse.

Her kiss is gentle and, this time, he can stand it. He revels in it, even, feeling as though their lie has somehow sprouted into truth.

He slips his tongue into her mouth as he pushes inside her, sliding easily inch after inch after inch. When he meets resistance he pauses and pulls back a bit before thrusting forward and, fuck, he’s so deep inside her.

There’s a loud banging on the door.

It’s jarring, reality whooshing back around him, and then the panic sets in; the fear of being discovered mixing with the fear of not making her come.

“Just a minute,” Billie calls out hoarsely.

“A minute?” he mouths, eyebrows arched high.

“Oh, you can do it,” she whispers, tongue peeking out at the corner of her smile.

He laughs and kisses her before getting down to the very serious business of getting them both off before the toilet queue starts snaking around the block. Gripping her hips, he starts slamming into her, noticing the way her breasts bounce as he lowers his mouth to her neck to suck on her pulse point.

She’s trying to be quiet, he can tell, but her sounds are missing the urgency they had when his fingers were inside her. He tries something different, pulls nearly all the way out before pushing back in, and it makes her gasp and swear but he doesn’t think it’s enough. So he cradles the small of her back and leans forward, helping her recline against the countertop until her head rests against the mirror.

He thrusts experimentally and she moans, the change in angle making his pelvis rutt against her clit. David groans at the sound and speeds up, eyes screwed shut as he tries to keep his orgasm at bay just a little longer. Billie’s legs are wrapped tight around his back and her hands are fisting at his shirt and she’s panting, making small gasps and quiet cries, but she’s not coming and, oh god, he needs her to come _now_.

In a last ditch effort, he moves his hand from her hip and wedges it between them, hardly registering that he turned the sink’s tap on with his elbow. He rubs her clit roughly, haphazardly, moving in circles and swirls and patterns -- anything that might catch her body off guard and send her tripping into release.

She gets quieter and he thinks it’s working, his hips picking up speed in anticipation and now he’s truly pounding into her, her head bumping into the mirror again and again.

“Yes, there, _almostalmostalmost_ ,” she whimpers and he’s done for, groaning into her hair as his orgasm rocks through him, making him shudder as he spurts inside her.

Somehow it’s enough, his sounds triggering her release, and she’s clenching around him and choking back moan after moan before he’s even finished coming.

He stays still as they shiver through their aftershocks, cradling her and listening to her ragged breaths over the sound of running water. Then Billie laughs and he does too, kissing her between giggles before hauling her up so she’s sitting again.

“Well done,” she says, nuzzling the underside of his jaw. “Knew you could do it.”

He smooths his thumb along her cheek and feels the words rise thickly in his throat, words that are about to tumble out when there’s an even louder banging on the door.

“There’s a queue out here, you know!”

“Alright, alright!” she shouts at the wood paneling.

David laughs again because everything feels incredibly surreal, because Billie is yelling at people while her tits are out and his cock is still softening inside her.

***

They manage to clean themselves up and exit the loo with minimal embarrassment, considering. David postulates that the white noise of the running faucet may have drowned out her cries and Billie smiles, agreeing that his clumsiness may have come in handy, for once.

He gets them both a glass of water and they sneak out to the back garden, sitting side by side on the porch steps while she smokes a fag and he starts to sober up. When she’s done she flattens the stub against a wooden post and rests her head on his shoulder. He looks up at the sky and wonders if he’s ever seen stars so bright.

“Did you have any idea this would happen?” she asks after a while.

“No,” David says, wrapping his arm around her waist. “I really, really didn’t.”

“What do we do?”

He considers this for a moment, the possible trajectories their paths could take, before deciding it’s best to stay the course. He pulls Billie in close and presses his lips to her temple.

“Keep lying.”


End file.
